Murdersplosion
by QueensJenn
Summary: A bunch of Nathan/Murderface shorts, in no particular order. Some are slash, some are friendship, some are both. But they are all brutal.
1. The Way They Were

The Way They Were

Sometimes, he wishes that Dethklok had never formed.

Sure, it's nice to have more money than they know what to do with. It's nice to have servants to cater to their every whim. It's nice to go out on stage to millions of screaming fans, and know that they would do anything for you - even literally die for you.

But sometimes he misses the way it used to be. When it was just him and Nate in a crappy one bedroom apartment with no prospects and no money, sleeping in the same bed which totally wasn't gay because they had to share body heat because it wasn't their they'd spent the utility bill money on booze and weed. (Okay, maybe that was their fault. But it still wasn't gay.)

He misses the days where he called him 'Nate' and Nate called him 'Will' and they could honestly call themselves friends, none of this no-caring bullshit. He misses the nights spent watching shitty horror movies on basic cable. He misses being at yet another shitty gig to try to pull in some income so they won't get evicted again, and looking out into the audience and seeing his face there, no matter how un-brutal the music was.

He misses the days before the others.

Toki is all right; he's just a kid, and not too bright at that. He's fun to pal around with, but it isn't the same, and he can't pretend it is. Palling around with Toki is more like being a babysitter. He supposes he feels a certain kinship with the rhythm guitarist; they're both marginalized and ignored and second-class citizens in their own band. But Toki deserves that treatment; he's a replacement. Magnus might have been a dildo-licking jackoff, but he had more talent that Toki will ever have.

He's been in Dethklok since before there was a Dethklok. He doesn't deserve this treatment.

If he has to put his finger on where everything went wrong musically, it would be when Skwisgaar joined up. The Swede was arrogant enough to believe that anything not written by himself could only be dildoes, and so insisted on writing every part by himself - even the bass lines.

He stands there, day after day, week after week as the Swede shows him new basslines, and day after day, week after week, he plays them poorly, forcing Knubbler to mix him out; drawing the ire from his bandmates. He doesn't care; it's his own form of silent protest.

He knows he could write basslines that are ten times better than Skwisgaar's. They just don't give him the chance anymore.

He stopped caring about the music after that.

He misses the days before Pickles.

He hadn't trusted the drummer right off the bat. There was something about the way that Nate looked at him, that just turned his stomach. It began slowly - they wrote lyrics together. He knows he's not a writer; it makes sense that Nate and Pickles would do that. Then they began palling around. Drinking together, the way that he and Nate had done, in the early days, the days when everything was hard but so real, the days he cherishes, if he's ever cherished anything, and will never stop wishing to go back to.

The day he realized that Pickles was taking his place in Nathan's life, he swore a private little war.

If there's anything he knows about, it's war.

He's hated many people before in his life. But he's never hated anyone as much as he hates Pickles.


	2. Except for That One Thing

_WHAM!_

_Stomp stomp stomp. _

William didn't look up from re-stringing his bass. Nathan was home, and from the way he was stomping around, he was not in a good mood. Not that that was an uncommon occurance these days.

"Schtill no luck?" he asked unecessarily as Nathan sat down heavily in the worn out armchair, cracking open a beer and drinking almost all of it in one gulp.

"Fucking dildo jack-offs assholes..." was Nathan's only reply. That was how William knew he was mad. Nathan was inarticulate at the best of times, but when he was reduced to a string of curses and insults, look out. He resumed his ministrations on his bass. If Nathan wanted to talk, he would talk when he was good and ready.

"You know what the problem is, Will?" Nathan thundered without waiting for an answer. "Everyone in this fucking town is scared."

William looked confused. That was not what he was expecting. "Schcared," he repeated. "Schcared of what?

"Yeah. People see us, and it's just us, and they see that we're good, but if I ask them to join, it's all 'no, you're too poor, you're too unknown, there's no money here' and they take off for other dildoes that are bigger than us but they suck."

"I schee." Nathan was right. It was hard to get people to join up with an unknown band - especially one that currently only consisted of a singer and a bassist. But Nathan was new to the whole music business - had he even been in any band before? William didn't know, but he didn't have the heart to tell him that this was pretty normal.

"They don't think...don't think we'll ever be anything. Maybe...I think...they could be right."

"Don't schay that." William hesitated. He wasn't good at saying emotional things, but somehow, the words came easily for once. "It'sch you. You think scho big, the othersch can't schee it. They've been here too long. They've scheen too many failuresch. They schee a mountain in front of usch. You juscht schee a hill."

"But which one is right?"

"Neither. And both. Schome fail. Schome don't. But you're different, Nate. You don't schee it like that. We're going to make it, and we'll schow all those dildo-lickers what they missched out on."

Nathan looked at him for a long time, taking in his words. Finally, a tiny smile crept on to his face. "That might be the smartest thing you ever said."

The next day, he recruited an out of work guitarist name Magnus Hammerstorm, and kid from Sweden who could barely speak English but could play guitar like a god.

It wasn't much, but it was something. They were conquering the mountain.


End file.
